


A Crack in the Wall

by DroughtofApathy



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: A little bit of internalized homophobia that goes away real fast, Angst, Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Hate Sex, Hélène atones for her part in the abduction but refuses to be fully blamed thanks, Introspection, Mary is safe and happy, Marya adops all the strays, Minor Violence, Natasha is a cheeky little shit, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Realistically financially struggling Marya, Religion and Sexuality, Sonya gets the recognition she deserves damnit, Which leads to love sex, but like, less so than realistic because they've all been through enough, mentions of domestic abuse, minor anatole bashing because he deserves it damnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DroughtofApathy/pseuds/DroughtofApathy
Summary: In the aftermath of that terrible night, Marya reflects on love, her godchildren, and who is truly responsible. In a matter of weeks, her life has turned upside down. But Natasha is improving, Sonya is perhaps not as insignificant as she thought, and somehow or other Marya has acquired a third goddaughter in a not-so-faded princess. Then there's the matter of that conniving Hélène Kuragina. With a woman who gets the terrible dragon all sorts of flustered, what's a good Russian woman to do?





	A Crack in the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of got away from me. One minute I was just planning on plunking out a few thousand words and the next I'm sailing right by 10k. It was just supposed to be a little bit of Marya introspection with an added bonus of hate sex because I love Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova, and also Grace McLean could snap my neck and I'd thank her, but well... 
> 
> Notes: I wrote the first 16k in like two days then let it sit in my WIP folder for over a month before finally finishing the damned thing because college is hell and I want my 4.0, alright?
> 
> Also there are some Hadestown references because Amber Gray is playing basically the same character and you can't convince me otherwise. Which, speaking of, I present to you an idea of female Hades (Grace McLean) so we can finally have the lesbian Hades/Persephone we all deserve. (Fuck, now I want to write *that* fanfiction.)

Never let it be said that Marya Dmitryevna did not love and adore her goddaughters. Natasha, her pride and joy, yes. But also Sonya, the nervous thing she was, had grown on her. Ah, Sonya Rostova; good and earnest and everything Marya could not claim to be. Yes, she loved her goddaughters dearly, but she feared for them just as much. Perhaps, in the darkest hours of the night, even more so.

See, Natasha and Sonya were young and pure and innocent of the horrors the world wanted to throw at them. Even after all that had happened, that terrible business with that rat Anatole and the scandal of Nikolay, they’d still managed to retain that little sparkle of naivety. Even after the filth of Moscow had darkened their door, threatening to taint them with its stench forever, the two young women were still as unjaded as they day they’d been born.

Goodness, had Marya ever been quite so wide-eyed and fanciful? Impossible to believe. Perhaps once when she’d been but a young girl still too undeveloped for corsets. Alas no; sometimes Marya felt as though she must have been born old. Must have been born bitter and jaded and contrary; born worldly and cynical; born already knowing just how dark the world could be. Unlike her two young charges, Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova had never been an ingénue.

Oh, it did not mean Marya had not found her own joys in life: the opera, her devotion to God, knitting. Yes, knitting always had made living seem just a tad bit more worth it. Her sizable collection of scarves and gloves certainly supported that.

Marya Dmitryevna did not always understand her goddaughters, but that night, that horrid, horrid night when everything had gone so wrong, she’d never understood Natasha and Sonya more. Marya was ashamed to say, no small feat in and of itself, she’d not been kind to Sofia Rostova in the beginning. When she looked at the mousy little thing, she’d only seen the Rostov family’s lost fortune, gambled away by that foolish boy to that fiend, Dolokhov. Certainly, now she knew the faults of men did not rest with the pretty girls they held dear, but well… In any case, she’d not been kind to Sonya. Something she’d worked to atone for in the following weeks after that disastrous night.

On that night, when Sonya had come bursting into her room – the most fierce and determined Marya had ever seen her – the older woman had been astounded. For just a moment, seeing Sonya standing there with fire in her eyes, her pretty ginger hair just a few shades lighter than Marya’s own deep red curls, the mistress of the house had seen herself. Just a flicker. And Marya wondered if perhaps they had more in common than she’d originally believed. Of course, the moment Sonya confessed to Natasha’s foolishness, any thoughts to the resemblance between them flew from her mind.

When Natasha had screamed at her in a hysterical rage, Marya had seen flashes of her own anger, yes. But also just a hint of pride, and a heaping of anguish. It had been a long time, perhaps never, since someone had dared speak to the Dragon in that tone of voice. People feared Marya Dmitryevna; respected her. Being so rudely shouted at almost struck her as refreshing. But few truly liked her. Few truly cared like Natasha and now Sonya did. And when Natasha, one of the few who loved her, turned so viscerally against her, it had nearly shattered Marya’s heart into a million tiny shards, too sharp to pick up and too fragile to touch.

She had thought it could not get any worse. A ruined engagement, a scandalous failed-elopement with Moscow’s most infamous womanizer, a fractured relationship with her beloved goddaughter. Yes, how could anything ever be worse?

And then Natasha had poisoned herself. When Sonya, for the second time, had burst into her bedroom, Marya had nearly collapsed. She had not been able to breathe properly for days following the incident, even after Natasha had woken up.

But they did not call her the Dragon because she had little constitution. She’d done what needed to be done to save her beloved goddaughter’s precious live, and she’d done what she could to hold dear Sonya together. Marya Dmitryevna had buried a husband and four sons. She would not bury anyone else.

But alone, as she’d stroked a sleeping Natasha’s hair, Marya had understood. She had understood how death could seem the only viable option in the face of such awfulness. Understood feeling lost, like life had no meaning. Oh, she hadn’t felt quite so dramatically morose in many years, but she’d never quite forgotten the sensation. Like drowning in a centimeter of water. She vowed her goddaughters would never ever feel the way she once had. Either of them.

Weeks had passed since then, and gradually the gossipy whispers had faded to a distant hush. Pierre, bless his heart, had been such a wonderful help. Oh, Marya hadn’t been born yesterday. She knew her old friend and her young goddaughter seemed almost besotted with each other. Heartwarming, certainly, but worrisome.

Had Pierre not been married, had he not already been joined with another, Marya might have encouraged the two. She had no misconceptions to Pierre’s eccentric nature or precarious place in Moscow society. But he had wealth and status; something the Rostov family sorely needed. But Pierre was married. To Elena Kuragina, no less. A Queen of Society, perhaps, but also the kin of the man who had manipulated and nearly ruined her goddaughter. A woman Marya Dmitryevna distrusted and detested on principle. And Marya Dmitryevna did not compromise on her principles.

The woman infuriated her. She always had, Marya firmly believed. Those scandalous dresses far too daring for any respectable lady. It did not matter, Marya always thought haughtily, that the fine silks and satins accentuated the woman’s beauty. Not when it meant Hélène flitted about, flaunting her…her _breasts_ in such a distasteful manner. Pretty dresses or not, Marya’s old fashioned sensibilities shook whenever she saw that hussy spinning about on the arm of that Dolokhov and not her own husband as it should be.

No, Marya did not like Hélène. But for all her personal feelings on the matter, she had to admit Hélène’s attempts to apologize to her goddaughter had been sincere and touching. Though thankfully, Hélène and Marya had managed to avoid any contact with each other, the redhead knew Pierre’s wife had been in her home with Natasha. She’d been suspicious, of course. Livid even. But her old friend had drawn her aside and explained Hélène wished to atone for her part in the horrible elopement attempts.

To both Marya’s dismay and pleasure, as she’d watched from the shadows, Hélène seemed to genuinely want to help her goddaughter after her ordeal and brush with death. And Natasha had taken to Hélène just as easily as the first time. Goodness, Marya knew she would have to impart her goddaughters with a bit more caution and skepticism.

Sonya, at least, had a clear head on her and had taken more time before allowing herself to accept Hélène’s presence at her beloved cousin’s bedside. Yes, it had taken more than pouty lips and pretty curls to win Sofia over. Marya commended her now-less-timid goddaughter for waiting until she’d seen Hélène’s true intentions to warm to her.

Then again, Marya distinctly remembered how quickly Sonya had taken to Princess Marya Bolkonskaya, the poor faded thing, when the trembling woman had come to make amends. Not that Marya Dmitryevna disapproved of Sonya’s newfound friendship with the plain princess. She had always liked Mary well enough, even if she was well aware the timid woman personally found her terrifying.

Nowadays, more often than not, Princess Mary would come calling for Sonya rather than Natasha. And Marya didn’t have the heart to ever turn her away, knowing how her father could be. Besides, she had other things to worry over. And currently, with Anatole Kuragin out of sight, his damnable sister sat on top of Marya’s list.

\-----

Hélène and Marya’s silent agreement to avoid each other at all costs came crashing down when Pierre, who had never once had any interest to throw a dinner party in his life, got it in his head to invite Natasha, Sonya, and Marya to his home. Having seen Princess Mary at the Akhrosimova household a number of times, and having no real dislike of his best friend’s spinster sister, Pierre had extended the invitation to her as well.

And Marya couldn’t very well allow her two young, and now-unattached, goddaughters to go to the home of a man, married or not, for supper without proper supervision. She had a responsibility for their virtue and safety, and she’d already failed them once. Not again.

Still, going to treat with Pierre meant also having to eat alongside Hélène Kuragina. And the thought alone made Marya’s skin prickle and heart beat just a little faster.

And if Marya spent just a bit longer on her appearance than she had in the hectic past few weeks, well, she told herself it was only because she refused to give the countess any reason to disparage her.  
Natasha and Sonya’s excitement as they rode to the Bezukhov household might have been contagious had Marya not been so tightly wound. She did not truly believe Countess Elena would do anything to hurt her girls anymore, but she wouldn’t doubt she would attempt to antagonize her. Well, Marya would simply have to keep her admittedly-short temper in check.

Pierre greeted them at the door, looking awkward and uncertain. But Natasha’s smile and Sonya’s profuse thanks put him at ease well enough. Besides, Princess Mary had also just arrived and there wasn’t room for both of them to be anxious.

“Won’t, ah, you come this way?” He bowed awkwardly, and Marya had to stifle a small laugh. Pierre led them into the drawing room. “My wife should be out momentarily. Please, make yourself at home.”

“Pierre, old friend,” Marya said, her voice warm and full of affection for the man. “There is no need for such formality. We are old friends, yes?” Pierre nodded, looking visibly relieved. His shoulders slumped slightly, returning to their normal hunched position. He looked far more comfortable.

After making polite chatter with Natasha, Pierre excused himself to see about his wife. Marya noted how he’d grimaced as he said those words. And for a moment, a flash of pity for the woman crossed her mind. But no. No, Marya would not pity the likes of Hélène Kuragina. Clearly, given the nature of her reputation, she had found other ways of enjoying life’s little pleasures.

Still, as Marya watched Pierre amble off, a sudden urge to follow overcame her. She made her excuses to the girls, who seemed much more taken with each other’s company and hardly noticed anyway.

Eavesdropping most certainly was not what a proper woman should be doing, and had any of the girls caught Marya out, she would have said exactly that. But, well, Marya had not survived the gossip of Moscow because she considered herself too prim and proper to listen in on a private conversation every now and then.

“…can’t believe you are forcing me to be in the same room as _that_ woman,” said a feminine voice. Hélène. Knowing exactly who _that_ woman was, Marya stiffened. Had she been less immune to criticism after so many long decades, she might have flushed in embarrassment.

“I am _asking_ you to be civil for one evening, wife!” Pierre said gruffly, no trace of the warmth he’d displayed to Marya and the girls. “You act as though you haven’t spent the past three weeks at Marya’s home every day.”

“With Natasha,” Hélène said, and her tone was far from the sultry seductress voice she’d used to entrance Marya’s goddaughters and every other man in Moscow. “And Sonya. Not her! If you expect me to be kind and courteous to the woman responsible for you banishing my brother from Moscow.”

For all her faults and all the rumors surrounding the countess, Marya had never quite believed those whispers about Hélène and Anatole being…less than brotherly and sisterly together. Hélène may have been a hussy, and her brother a slut, but Marya had thought…had hoped…they’d been more pious and God-fearing than that. But hearing the anguish in Hélène’s voice, her distress at losing her brother, Marya couldn’t be so sure.

“You will be civil,” Pierre said, his voice carrying the severity of his threat. “Is that understood, wife?”

Hélène laughed. Not one of those musical little trills, or seductive chuckles Marya had heard pass the countess’s lips in the past. A laugh filled with bitterness and rage. A sort of laugh Marya knew herself intimately well.

The redhead stole away back to the drawing room before she could be discovered.

 

As luck would have it, Marya found herself seated to Hélène’s left at the long dining room table. Next to her, Natasha seemed far more eager to engage with Pierre, who sat at the head, than her old godmother or even Hélène.

Princess Mary, bless her heart, had taken to shyly conversing with the countess. And though Marya was most certainly not at all interested, it hardly was her fault she had no choice but to listen.  Really, she almost pitied the both of them. Hélène had too much social grace, and Mary not nearly enough. Their conversation remained stilled and awkward, and finally Hélène graciously told Mary she could converse with Sonya if she wished. Relieved, the princess gave Hélène a grateful smile before turning to her friend. Leaving Marya and Hélène to stare down at their plates. At last Marya’s manners won out over her grudge.

“My thanks in inviting us into your home, Countess,” Marya said, looking right through the other woman. Or rather, she’d intended to. Having spent the majority of the evening thus far actively ignoring Countess Elena Kuragina, she hadn’t yet taken in the woman’s appearance.

Marya blinked, surprised. For once in her life, Hélène, had opted not to bare her shoulders and push up her breasts. Her makeup was lighter than usual, though still artfully done. And her dress positively demure for her usual standards, though certainly still a bit too daring for someone like Marya to consider for herself. She’d even seen fit to cover her shoulders with a silken shawl that looked entirely too expensive.

Truthfully, despite it being exactly what Marya had thought Hélène should be wearing all these years, it looked so different and unusual that the redhead didn’t quite know if she liked it or not. Certainly, Hélène looked pretty like this. But then, she always looked pretty. Well, Marya would have been a fool not to recognize beauty like hers. It didn’t mean she approved. And though the more modest clothing looked just as flattering, it would be too strange, too uncharacteristic, if Hélène were to dress this way all the time.

Belatedly, Marya realized with a tinge of embarrassment that Hélène had answered her and was now staring curiously, as if wondering what had caught Marya’s deep interest. Quickly, Marya fixed her gaze on a vase somewhere behind the countess. But it was too late. She’d already been caught, and Hélène’s infuriatingly smug smirk confirmed it.

“You seem…tense, Marya,” Hélène said, her voice once again just as low and sultry as ever. She lazily flicked a hand, indicating for a servant to refill Marya’s wine glass.

Marya wondered if she could be excused if she simply went back to ignoring the infuriating woman. But the others were all having a lively discussion of some frivolous bit of drivel, and Hélène’s entire attention was now fixated on her.

“Hardly,” Marya said haughtily, but she sipped her wine anyway. Her lipstick left a red ring on the fine glass. “Now, Countess. Are we to subject ourselves to the torment of playing nice with each other, or shall we return to our far more palatable meals and silence?”

“You spoke to me first, _ma chérie_ ,” said Hélène. A children’s retort, they both knew. But it had Marya on edge anyway. Oh, how she hated how this uppity aristocrat would flounce around speaking French and only ever pronouncing half of it correctly.

“And I now know better than to make the same mistake twice,” Marya said icily. “Let me be clear, Countess. I am here for my goddaughters and for my friendship with Pierre. I am not here for you.” And that was that.

Admittedly, Marya drank more than was likely advisable that night. But her Russian blood meant a few extra glasses of that lovely red wine, and perhaps a shot of vodka to settle her ire had been just what she needed. She returned home, Natasha, Sonya, and Mary in tow, feeling pleasantly warm and languid.

She had graciously invited Princess Mary to spend the night, knowing the timid woman would feel much better in a warm and dry house than out traveling the streets to return to that dreadfully dreary and far-away home of hers.

While Sonya and Mary went off to see about arranging for a maid to tend to the Princess, and Natasha tiredly made her way to bed, a serene little smile on her face, Marya poured herself another tumbler to drink and retired to her own room.

In all, it had been a pleasant evening filled with enjoyable conversation and company. That little encounter with Hélène notwithstanding. And in the end, Marya went to sleep feeling satisfied with how things had gone.

\-----

Another week passed, and Marya had hardly time to rest. After Princess Mary had visited one day, futilely hiding bruises beneath her shapeless frock, and Sonya had nearly thrown a fit, Marya Dmitryevna saw no other recourse than to invite the poor woman to remain in her home indefinitely.

“Your father has enough servants and that churlish Frenchwoman to care for him,” Marya had said bluntly, causing Mary to flush in embarrassment. Her protests, timid and barely audible, quickly died out once Marya gave her a look.

“I insist, dear,” Marya had said, more gently this time. “For your own safety. Now, there’s a spare room just next to Sonya’s, and while it may not be quite up to your usual standards, I hope it will suffice. We’ll send someone with you to collect your things, and if you wish, I’ll accompany you to speak to that father of yours. It will not be the first time I’ve had words with him.” She had smiled at Mary, hoping she looked less intimidating than Mary usually saw her.

A few hours later, after an invigorating shouting match with Mary’s senile old father, Marya had a new houseguest and another mouth to feed. Not that she minded. Mary had insisted on paying for her trouble, and hardly took up much room at all.

It struck Marya, as she watched Mary gradually come out of her shell over the days following her newfound freedom, how much older she was than Natasha or even Sonya. Though Marya often forgot, Princess Mary was just barely in her thirties, and not at all close to being wed. She’d once been Moscow’s most eligible young woman, though it had been nearly a decade since then, and Mary’s plainness and timidity, coupled with her father’s jealous interference, had kept her virtue intact.

Marya supposed it just went to show what a little bit of breathing room could do for the kindhearted woman. It also didn’t hurt that Marya had been actively tempering her loud voice and propensity for over-the-top gesticulation so as not to spook the princess.

Sonya seemed much happier too, having her dear friend around constantly. As did Natasha. On Mary’s first day, the two girls had, quite bravely in Marya’s opinion, taken their loud godmother aside and sternly told her not to do anything that would send Mary into a panic.

“She doesn’t like shouting or arguing, Marya,” Sonya had said. “Please, let’s not make her any more anxious than she already is.” Marya had readily agreed, though she knew she would have to actively work to contain herself. After so many years with just a servant or two to keep her company, this full house of young women had been quite the adjustment. 

Four days after Mary came to stay, Marya sat all three of the young women down, hoping to impart a bit of crucial advice.

“Do not ever allow a man to raise his hands to you, my dears,” Marya said sternly. They all nodded, and Mary cast her eyes downward. Gently, she cupped Mary’s chin in her hand, bidding her to look up once more. “It is never any fault of yours that a man should choose to defile himself by harming a woman. It does not matter if it is a husband or a father or even a son. If any man hurts any of you, even you Princess Mary, you must leave that situation immediately. And you must also tell me at once because I promise you I shall wring his neck.”

And Marya saw with satisfaction that not a single one of them believed for a moment she was jesting. She would do whatever it took to keep them safe, even Mary. And if Anatole came back to Moscow… When she caught Natasha’s eye, they both knew Marya would have ended his sorry existence in an instant.

Thinking of Anatole made Marya think of Hélène. To her immense pleasure, Hélène had been visiting the house only when she knew for certain Marya was out running errands or visiting and they’d managed to avoid each other completely.

Evidently her luck had run its course, however, because Marya had just settled down with a cup of tea and her knitting needles when a knock startled her out of her chair. The three young women had gone out for the day, and likely wouldn’t be back until nightfall. She trusted Sonya’s sensibilities and Mary’s timidity would keep them out of trouble, and with no need for servants hovering over her, Marya had dismissed them for the day. She’d been planning to relish in the silence for just a bit, but someone had other plans.

When Marya opened the door to see Hélène Kuragina, clad in that ridiculously extravagant coat of hers, the temperamental redhead had been sorely tempted to slam the door in her face. Literally or figuratively she had yet to decide. But instead Marya testily informed her Natasha and the others were out, and if she wished to see them she would have to return tomorrow. Preferably when Marya wasn’t there.

“No, I think not,” Hélène said, and she waltzed right past Marya and into the drawing room. Marya followed, astonished.

“Really, Countess,” she said, feeling herself grow angry. “You have no right to just burst into my home like this. I must insist you leave.”

Hélène ignored her, much to her chagrin. Instead she tossed her heavy coat over the back of an armchair and sat down, once again wearing her usual revealing clothes. Marya’s eyes flickered to her distasteful décollage. Hélène smirked.

“Sit, Marya,” Hélène said, her voice smooth as silk. “We have much to discuss, you and I. Starting with when you might allow my dear brother to return to Moscow.”

Marya laughed. A near perfect replication of that cold cruel laugh Hélène had uttered in her bedroom that night at dinner.

“You must be more foolish than I thought,” Marya said, not sitting. A naturally tall woman, she enjoyed towering over the brazen hussy before her. Hélène simply smiled up at her, not intimidated in the least.

“Perhaps Anatole’s intentions were…ill-advised,” Hélène conceded. Marya scoffed, eager to have an opportunity to raise her voice after so many days of reigning herself in.

“ _Ill-advised_? Your dirty rat of a brother attempted to kidnap my goddaughter and marry her in Poland,” Marya snapped. “The very country his _wife_ lives in. And did he think to inform Natasha of this little detail? Did he think to consider the legal ramifications and shame his idiocy would bring upon my goddaughter? Did he ever consider he could never make her an honest woman or give her the love and support she deserves? No, he simply saw a pretty impressionable young thing and decided it was his God-given right to have her. His little scheme to defile Natasha nearly killed her as you well know, and if I ever see that scoundrel again, I shall repay him in kind. And you, _you_ are barely any more innocent, Countess. Your brother only ever thinks with his manhood, and clearly you are no different. I’m sure you can find someone to warm your bed and take your brother’s place.”

It felt positively divine to have someone to shout at. To have someone Marya could verbally eviscerate. Hélène stood, and before Marya could even react, the countess slapped her across the face. Hard. 

Marya hissed, cradling her reddening cheek. It stung. But far from sending her running, that slap invigorated the older woman. No one had ever, ever, dared strike the Terrible Dragon of Moscow before. 

“This may shock you, Marya,” Hélène said, advancing on her once more. “But I do not take kindly to your insinuation. That you would even-”

“Oh, please,” Marya interrupted loudly, looking down her nose at the livid woman before her. “You know very well how…close…Moscow knows you and your brother to be. _Intimately_ close, in fact. And I’m sure I could see your concern with him being gone and Dolokhov off chasing him. Tell me, Hélène? Did it ever bother you that neither chose you to be their first choice?”

“Not that it is any of your business who I choose to take my pleasure with,” Hélène said, dangerously calm. “And not that you would believe a woman you have already deemed a slut anyway. But I have _never_ been disloyal to my husband, pathetic buffoon that he is.”

“Only a fool would believe that nonsense,” Mayra said with a scoff. “You. Hanging off of every arm in the city. Flirting your way through the entire male population of Moscow, often right in front of your poor husband. Tell me how that is not disloyalty?”

Marya had always despised seeing the wife of her friend acting so brazenly coquettish. That sort of woman had no business being near anyone she held dear.

“My ‘poor’ husband is a fool and a drunkard,” Hélène said harshly. “He drowns himself in whiskey and wine, and pity the fool who catches him in one of his stupors. Pity the wife who suffers his bouts of rage and violence. We both know I am not and never have been the one Pierre loves. If I like the attention of the men in Moscow it is no one’s fault but his own. He could have been a proper husband, but he chose otherwise.”

“You have never been a proper wife, so I’m not surprised he wouldn’t want anything to do with you,” Marya said, but the frank discussion of Pierre’s alcohol-induced rage unsettled her. 

“I _tried_ ,” Hélène said, lifting her chin proudly. “Oh, once when I was a young girl I loved him, the soft buffoon. I would have gladly never flirted with anyone else had he not driven me so far away. Not even on our wedding night did he show me an ounce of affection. I disgust him. I disgust myself for remaining loyal even after all he has done to me.”

“All he has done?” Marya laughed at that. “Look at yourself, Countess. Lavish balls, exquisite clothes, anything you could ever want. Not all of us are so fortunate. Your husband tolerates far too much from the likes of you. You would do well to-”

“Do you know what he once did to me, Marya? Do you know what despicable thing my dear sweet husband did? He took his big, big hands-” Hélène grabbed Marya’s hand and forced it to grab her neck – “and squeezed.”

Marya gasped, wrenching her hand away from Hélène’s neck. She watched with wide eyes as the imprints from her fingers faded away from the light brown skin. She swallowed, suddenly very uncomfortable.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Natasha,” Hélène said, without any bitterness. “He would never lay a finger on her. She isn’t me. But you see, even if I had taken lovers, I would have been well within my rights. But my bed has been cold and empty for many years. Then again, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Marya? Tell me, how many years has it been since your husband died?”

“I don’t remember,” Marya said sternly. “And I don’t know what you are trying to do by telling me this, but I will not have your rat of a brother anywhere near my Natasha.”

“Why is it you never remarried, Marya?” Hélène asked, her tone completely shifting to one of delicate curiosity. Marya blinked. “If I recall, you were younger than I am now when he went to the Lord. An awfully long time to be so frigid and unfulfilled. Or perhaps the rumors are true about you, Marya Dmitryevna.”

Marya’s breath caught in her throat. She felt livid that Hélène would dare insinuate such a thing. Oh, Marya was well-versed in the gossip about herself. She knew damn well what people believed of her, and why they speculated she had never remarried. With her loud and brash demeanor, her haughty distaste for men, her instance on remaining independent, what else could she be but a…a tribade? 

“Let’s test a theory, shall we?” Hélène smirked and stepped forward. Without meaning to, Marya took an instinctive half-step back.

What Hélène did next, Marya would not have expected in a million years. Before she realized, before she knew what was happening, Marya felt a pair of soft and full lips against her own. Kissing her. She froze. Hands gripped her waist and the small of her back, pulling her flush up against the smaller woman’s warm body. She could feel Hélène’s full bosom against her own smaller one, could taste Hélène’s essence. Wine, honey, just a bit of something minty. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and for just a moment, Marya melted. A shiver traveled up her spine, and she let out the quietest little whimper you ever did hear.

Marya felt Hélène’s lips curve upward against her own and her eyes flew open in horror. She stumbled back, breathing heavily in shock and confusion. Her lips still tingled. Horrified, she saw her own shade of red peppering Hélène’s mouth. Hélène laughed, a sound full of mocking amusement.

Marya sank heavily onto a loveseat, still in shock. All those years, all that careful effort she’d put in to hide this…this abnormality about herself. And Hélène Kuragina had brought it all crashing down in an instant. She sucked in a ragged breath, knowing the countess now had the power to ruin her. She knew for all the respect and admiration the Moscow public had for her, the mere suggestion that perhaps those rumors had merit would forever damn her. She could deny the rumors all she wanted, but Marya had responded to that dizzying kiss. And Hélène knew it.

“My, my,” said Hélène in a honey-sweet voice. “What a delightful turn of events. There may be hope for you yet, Marya Dmitryevna.” And with that, Hélène sailed out of the drawing room and down the hall. 

Marya lurched to her feet, heart pounding. Hélène was off doing who-knew-what in her house. That alone was enough for Marya to push aside her panic and mortification, instead channeling rage. The audacity! That did it. Marya wanted Hélène Kuragina out of her home and out of her life immediately.

She stormed from the drawing room in a whirl of skirts just in time to catch the shimmer of Hélène’s dress as she disappeared into Marya’s very own bedroom. How had she known where to go? Obviously Marya should have never allowed that woman unfettered access to her home without her strict supervision because she clearly had no boundaries to speak of.

When she entered her bedroom, she found herself pinned against the closed door before she could so much as speak. Them, Hélène’s lips were on hers once more, and this time she wasn’t nearly as gentle.

But this time, Marya was ready for her. She shoved Hélène back, curling her lips into a sneer. And she most definitely ignored the want pooling in her lower abdomen.

“I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish here,” she said angrily. “But I won’t have it.”

Hélène merely smiled and sauntered backwards to lay on Marya’s bed. She beckoned the older woman forward, and as though she were being pulled by a string, Marya went. She couldn’t deny herself anymore. All those years spent glowering at Hélène from across crowded ballrooms or Opera houses. All those years spent pretending she hadn’t seen this exact moment in her guilt-ridden fantasies late at night.

“It seems you and I have more in common than you thought, Marya,” Hélène said biting at her bottom lip. Marya’s urge to take it between her own teeth grew exponentially, but still she held back. It terrified her; Hélène terrified her. But the smug woman thrust her chest forward and inched her fine skirts up, and something inside Marya snapped.

She surged forward, pouncing on Hélène with as much grace as she could muster given the circumstances and the girth of her skirts. Their lips met, this time a violent crash rift with rough bites and probing tongues. Marya grabbed Hélène’s wrists, pinning them to the mattress. Whatever her previous reservations, now all she wanted was to hear Hélène Kuragina whimper and moan.

Suddenly, gasping in surprise, Marya found herself flat on her back. Panting with effort and arousal, Hélène sat atop the stunned redhead, smirking down at her triumphantly. She held Marya’s wrists down, pinned her hips with the weight of her own body. A growl from somewhere deep in the back of Marya’s throat surfaced and she thrashed, trying to regain the upper hand.

Hélène teasingly spread her body across Marya’s, eyes sparkling with mirth. Marya didn’t understand how a woman like Hélène could possibly pin her down so effectively. The redhead was taller, stronger. She should have been able to easily flip the countess beneath her once more. But what Hélène lacked in physical strength, she more than made up for in wile.

In an instant, Marya’s feeble attempts to assert her dominance ceased completely when Hélène began sucking at the hollow of her neck. And there could be no mistaking her racing pulse or erratic breathing. She whimpered, shocked but secretly not displeased with this unforeseen turn of events. Always, in the rare fantasies she’d allowed herself to have, Marya had painted herself as the aggressor. Lying there, though, as Hélène reduced her to a shivering, mewling mess, Marya decided she would have to reconsider the merits of being in her current position.

“Marya, darling,” Hélène said in her sultry voice. “Let me show you just what you have been denying yourself all these years. If you say no, I’ll simply walk out right now, and we can forget this little dalliance ever happened.”

The redhead took several deep breaths in an attempt to gather her wits. She knew she should end this now before it was too late. Knew nothing good could ever come of her own weakness. But she gazed into Hélène’s pretty brown eyes, felt the heat of their bodies pressed together, tasted Hélène on her lips. And Marya let herself crack the wall separating herself from her innermost desires.

They chose not to waste even a moment undressing. With little time before something inevitably shattered this precious bubble, Hélène instead simply rucked up Marya’s many-layered skirts, and dragged down her underthings.

Marya could barely contain a sharp cry when Hélène’s warm fingertips danced across her most intimate place. No one had touched her there in so very long, and never with such skill and near-reverence. Stifling a groan, Marya threw her head back into her pillows and barely felt it when several hair pins dug into her scalp.

Hélène chuckled against Marya’s neck, still intent on leaving her mark across the pale white skin. The high collar of the older woman’s blouse barely served as a deterrent as she continued to nip and suck even through the black fabric; across Marya’s throat, down to the tops of her small breasts.

Marya’s desperate and nearly successful attempt to quiet her noises of pleasure dissolved to nothing the moment Hélène’s finger found a particularly sensitive spot somewhere towards the top of her womanhood. Never had Marya ever felt such exquisite pleasure. She had no idea such a sensitive, wonderful, fantastic spot even existed, but Hélène stroked at it with such skill that Marya felt sure she must know some magnificent secret.

Her hips began to rock against Hélène’s hand of their own accord, and Marya desperately clung to her back, drawing her as close as she possibly could.

“That’s it, darling,” Hélène husked. “You’re so close, _ma cherie_. Beg me, Marya. Come on now. Say please, and I can give you what it is you crave.”

Marya barely had enough wits about her to listen to what Hélène was saying. She shook her head, wanting to retain the very last shreds of her dignity. The thought of begging like a pitiable beast for a bit of pleasure made the redhead sneer. Or rather, it would have had she not been too busy desperately rutting up against the other woman.

“Go to hell,” Marya snarled, her nails digging into Hélène’s skin even through her dress. Her retort might have been more effective had she not followed it with a low whine when Hélène pulled away. 

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Hélène said, feigning nonchalance. She moved to climb off of the trembling redhead, but Marya grabbed her in a panic.

“No, please,” Marya said before she could stop herself. And, swallowing her pride, Marya begged. Barely knowing what she was truly begging for, Marya pleaded and whimpered until Hélène at last appeared satisfied. To Marya’s relief, Hélène redoubled her efforts, sending her into a state of incomparable bliss.

“Please! Oh, please,” Marya said in a ragged voice. Every nerve prickled under Hélène’s talents, alight with pleasure. She thrashed uncontrollably, trying to get more. More, more, more. More friction, more stimulation, more of everything Hélène had to offer. “ _Please_!”

And, without even delving inside her soaked womanhood, without removing any more than just her underthings, Hélène drew Marya Dmitryevna to the most indescribable, divine pleasure she had ever received. She flew over the edge with a shattered scream, and Hélène just kept going, sucking every last bit of delight from Marya’s wrecked body.

At long last, Marya slumped back, boneless and sated. Every centimeter of her person felt warm and smoothed over and utterly relaxed. She watched in fascination as Hélène, somewhat clumsily she noted with satisfaction, shoved her own underthings down and began frantically thrusting against Marya’s thigh.

The curly-haired minx made quite the compelling sight; skirts shoved up, panties kicked down somewhere at the bottom of the bed, swollen lips parted in glee. Hélène let out a small moan, laced with amusement and satisfaction. Her warm wetness smeared across Marya’s white thighs, her coarse pubic hair scratched, and the redhead trembled. Each time Hélène rocked against her, she sent a jolt straight to Marya’s already hypersensitive nether regions. Wonderfully tantalizing but not nearly enough to bring the redhead to the same heightened delight she’d experienced before.

As Hélène forcibly took her pleasure against Marya’s thigh, teasing mercilessly, she shamelessly refused to break eye contact. Marya kept her gaze steady, no matter how it made her breath catch to see Hélène so unguarded. She had already surrendered enough today.

Finally, long before Marya could come close to a second orgasm, but not long enough to have her subtly rocking her hips in the hopes Hélène would take pity on her, the younger woman shuddered in pleasure. Her moan lingered for far longer than Marya thought proper, and she looked the spitting image of a cat that ate the canary.

But before Marya could work out a way to goad Hélène into fucking her once more, the other woman gracefully slipped from the bed, smoothing her hair and skirts back into place. She left Marya just lying there, suddenly exposed to the chill of the room, sweat and arousal cooling rapidly and causing goosebumps to pop up from her pale flesh.

Marya stared at her, still too dazed to move. It filled her with such irrational anger that Hélène should be allowed to look this put-together even after such a violent encounter.

“Keep these,” Hélène said smugly. She tossed her soaked underthings at Marya carelessly and sauntered over to the door. “Goodbye, Marya. Hope we can do this again sometime.” And she sailed out the door with barely another glance.

Marya lay there, too exhausted and stunned to move. Her corset squeezed painfully at her chest, as if she didn’t have enough trouble breathing as is. She knew how risky it was to continue lying there with her skirts pushed up around her waist and freshly fucked genitals on full display. But a deep sense of lethargy settled in Marya’s bones, and she fell into a dreamless sleep before she could so much as blink.

\-----

The next time Marya opened her eyes, the fire had long since burned out and only a few smoldering embers remained. She sat bolt upright in a panic, hurriedly shoving her skirts back down to cover her bare legs. Bewildered, she raised her hand, staring down at a pair of soft satin underthings. Marya flung them away, what little color she had draining from her face.

So, it hadn’t been a dream then. She had well and truly been fucked by Hélène Kuragina. In her own bed. In her own home. A deep sense of shame pressed at her chest, and she struggled to take in air. 

In just one cursed afternoon, Marya Dmitryevna had allowed Moscow’s most scandalous woman to unravel decades of tightly spun barriers. She felt sick, dirty, and so very ashamed.

On unsteady legs, Marya stumbled over to her vanity, staring at her disheveled appearance. Loose tendrils of long red hair escaped her signature updo, and several bruises stood out starkly against her white throat. The remnants of her red rouge were smeared across her swollen and slightly bloody lips. She looked as though she’d been thoroughly ravaged. And yet, Hélène couldn’t have been in her home for more than an hour. How had she manipulated Marya so effectively in such a short time?

The very sight of herself made Marya sick. Hélène had used her. For what ends, Marya didn’t know, but she couldn’t stop tears from escaping her eyelids when she thought of how pathetically easy she’d been to seduce. Hélène had only had to bat her pretty brown eyes and Marya had followed like a lost puppy.

And in the end Marya hadn’t even been capable of reciprocating. Had been too lily-livered and breathless to do anything more than lie there and watch as Hélène had used her body as nothing more than an implement with which to take her pleasure.

All it took was a single crack in the wall, and the dam splintered. Unable to bear looking at her reflection any longer, Marya turned away and just sobbed. Her corset boning cut into her skin, and kept her from fully collapsing, but she clung to the sharp stab of pain to remain grounded.

“Foolish old woman,” Marya hissed vehemently. It had only taken the barest scrap of interest from a pretty young thing to turn the Dragon of Moscow into a whimpering wanton mess. And then she’d just disappeared, leaving Marya cold and alone once more. If possible that hurt the most. She’d wanted Hélène desperately. She still did.

Marya did not leave her bedroom for the rest of the night, claiming a splitting migraine. She knew her perceptive goddaughters and Mary would easily take notice of her red-rimmed eyes and cut lips. 

Marya did not leave the house for the rest of the week, half-terrified she would come face to face with Hélène. Natasha tried to coax her out with a suggestion of going to the opera. Marya, recalling the last time she had taken the girls to the opera and what a disaster that had been, gently turned her goddaughter down. Sonya kept her teacup full of rum and Earl Grey, and earnestly read aloud from Marya’s well-worn Bible, but that only served to increase her guilt and shame.

To the surprise of everyone, it was Princess Mary who finally got through to her melancholy host. Making sure Sonya and Natasha were out, Mary bravely cornered Marya in the kitchen. Not expecting Mary, of all people to confront her, Marya didn’t immediately dismiss her.

“Did something happen between you and Hélène?” Mary asked timidly. The flush on Marya’s face gave her away instantly, so she saw no use denying it.

“Why would you think that?” She asked instead, turning to face the kettle. “Countess Bezukhova has not been here for some time.”

“Only, well, I found her gloves in the drawing room,” Mary said, retrieving them from the pocket of her frock. “S-she hasn’t been back to claim them and…” Mary trailed off, squirming slightly. Marya sat at the small kitchen table, motioning for Mary to join her.

“Speak, Princess,” Marya said in the most reassuring voice she could muster. “Do not be afraid to say as you please here.”

“I know what hidden bruises look like,” Mary said, staring down at the table. Marya had to grab one hand with the other to keep from touching her neck. Her high-necked blouses had done a decent enough job of keeping her indiscretion a secret, but the red handprint on her pale cheek had been harder to conceal, no matter how faint it had been.

“We had an altercation, yes,” Marya admitted. She wondered why it was she’d chosen to confide in this skittish woman of all people. But she felt a strange kinship with Princess Mary. After all, no one else quite enjoyed going to church with her on Sunday as much as she did. “And…and it did not go as expected. I believe I made a terrible mistake, and I- I don’t know what to do about it.”

Mary sat quietly for so long Marya assumed she wouldn’t speak at all, but after sipping her tea contemplatively she said, “I know you do not like the countess, and you blame her for what happened to Natasha. But perhaps it would be…sensible…to consider making amends? Um, given Hélène’s reputation, I myself had initially disliked her, but she is not malevolent. And, well, she is no guiltier than I. If I had only been kinder, perhaps…”

“Mary,” Marya said tenderly. She stroked the princess’s trembling hand. “We harbor no blame for you, my dear. Even if you had been at fault, you have more than made amends for any supposed wrongdoing. Natasha is young and acted rashly.”

“But that’s just it,” Mary said, looking up. She met Marya’s eyes for a moment before coloring and looking down once more. “Hélène has more than made amends as well, and yet I have been forgiven and she has not. We are God-fearing women, Marya. And God would want us to forgive.”

In her heart, Marya knew the younger woman spoke the truth. She would not forgive Anatole, but perhaps blaming his sister for his actions, no matter how great her part, had been unfair. That did not solve her other, and far more mortifyingly intimate problem, but the thought of sharing such a scandalous thing with poor Mary seemed incomprehensible.

She spent much of that night on her knees, begging God for both forgiveness and guidance. All Marya’s life had been devoted to Him and she prayed He would not forsake her over the actions of a single hour.

Uncertainly, Marya reasoned that God had made woman, and had he not wanted her to feel such exquisite pleasure he would never have made such a lovely feature to a woman’s body. A feature her husband certainly hadn’t been able to find the handful of times he had required her presence in his bed.

And more certainly, Marya reasoned that if God had not wanted women to love, he would not have made Marya with these desires she had had all her life.

Of course, of all the women who had to be responsible for Marya’s sexual awakening, it had to be Hélène Kuragina. Marya supposed it served her right for being so prideful. Yes, she would go to visit the younger woman in the morning.

_____

Marya Dmitryevna did not visit Hélène the next morning. Nor the morning after that. In fact, it took three days for the redhead to swallow her pride and make the trip. And while Princess Mary was too shy still to give Marya any disapproving looks, the message was clear.

The only reason Marya Dmitryevna did not hesitate to knock on the great wooden door was her refusal to be seen sulking outside and become part of the gossip mill once more.

A servant greeted her at the door. “Ah, good morning, madam,” he said, bowing low. “The Count is out attending to business. He should be home in a few hours if it pleases you to return then.”

“Actually,” Marya said in her commanding voice. “I have come to see Countess Bezukhova. If you would be so kind to summon her for me.”

The servant bowed once more and led Marya into the drawing room. Minutes later, Hélène came bustling in, mercifully alone. They regarded each other warily, both unsure exactly what the other truly wanted from them. But Marya refused to allow herself to be made a coward again. She asked Hélène if they might discuss something in a more private setting, and Hélène wordlessly beckoned her to follow.

They ended up in, of all places, the countess’s bedroom. Marya eyed the opulent four-poster bed as warily as she did its usual occupant.

“Do relax, Marya,” Hélène said, perching herself on the loveseat at the foot of the bed. She patted beside her, indicting for Marya to sit. Far too intimate, Marya thought, but it would have to do.

“I don’t know what it is you want from me,” Marya began strongly. “Or what it was you hoped to accomplish from your…actions the other day. But I will not allow myself to be trapped or tricked. If this is blackmail, I won’t have it.”

“As _charmante_ as it is to be accused of such dastardly deeds, I’m afraid you’re very much mistaken,” Hélène said, touching Marya’s knee gently. Marya jerked away reflexively, flushing. Well, at least Hélène had finally managed to correctly pronounce _charmante_. It only took thirty-some-odd years.

“Then tell me _why_ ,” Marya demanded, beginning to shake slightly. “Why you would ever want- why you would come into my home, into my bedroom, and…” Marya waved a hand pointedly, her blush deepening.

“Isn’t it obvious, Marya?” Hélène asked, trailing a finger down Marya’s neck. The love bites Hélène left had only just begun to fade. The redhead’s breath hitched, but she did not retreat. “I wanted you. Nothing abhorrent or nefarious, my darling. Is it so unbelievable I would find you alluring, Marya Dmitryevna? The Dragon.”

“Stop it,” Marya hissed, shoving Hélène’s hand away at last. “Just stop it. I do not appreciate being made a mockery of, Countess. And I don’t appreciate being played for a fool. What is it you really want with me, because it can’t just be…me. And that doesn’t explain your avoidance of me either.”

Hélène gave her a look filed with such pity that Marya nearly slapped it right off of her. She hadn’t intended to lay out her insecurities, and now that she had, God only knew what Hélène would make of her. She expected to be laughed right out of the house, but instead Hélène rose and moved to stare out the window.

“And they say I’m vain and self-centered,” Hélène said, glancing over her shoulder. “Not everything I do is centered around you, Marya. If you must know, Pierre and I are seeking a divorce. So that he may pursue your Natasha freely. With my blessing, I might add, before you go getting any ideas.”

Nothing could have surprised Marya more. Divorces, even ones from marriages long since over, were unheard of and more than a little unorthodox, even for the likes of Hélène or Pierre. Tentatively, Marya moved closer, though she remained out of view of the window, just in case.

“My apologies, then,” she said. A ridiculous thing to say, but even so. “What becomes of you then, Hélène? Will you be taken care of?”

“Marya, I didn’t know you cared,” Hélène said, but her smile was brittle. Marya closed the curtains and drew Hélène from the window. “Oh, don’t look so concerned. Even without my husband’s title, I am still nobility and I expect I shall do just fine. After all, you yourself are a tribute to the possibilities of solitary women in Russia. Besides. This marriage has been a farce since before it had even begun. I never wanted children, he never wanted me. Doomed from the start.”

It still did not answer Marya’s initial question. With Hélène’s impending divorce, however scandalous, she could have had her pick of men in the city without worrying about being disloyal to her husband. Instead, she had gone to an old widow with nothing to give.

Hélène gave Marya a sad smile, wistful even. “Pierre is keeping the house. And, given the possibility I would not be staying in Moscow, I wanted to have the opportunity to…to have you before I left under the guise of wanting to speak on behalf of my fool brother. I meant what I said, Marya. You are an intriguing woman. And I suspected you would be at least somewhat receptive to my advances; however unorthodox they were. Are you satisfied?”

No, Marya most certainly was _not_ satisfied. Of all the infuriating, childish, roundabout ways to catch her attention, Hélène Kuragina had chosen the most absurd. And then left, as though nothing had changed. Left as though Marya only was good for was a last hurrah before Hélène departed. So, the countess had used her after all. For something unsurprising, it still hurt.

“Perhaps you are not the whore I believed you to be,” Marya said forcefully, but as loudly as she dared lest a servant be eavesdropping. Hélène flinched. “But neither am I your plaything, Elena. I will not be used like the women your brother takes up with. I have…I have spent the better part of my life hiding the desires I had for women. Countless of nights in terror over something I couldn’t understand for years. All this anxiety and fear that I would be condemning myself to an eternity of hell only for _you_ to waltz right in and undo all of my efforts for just an hour’s worth of fun.

“That you would trivialize what I have struggled with all this time for your own cheap thrill at bedding the Terrible Dragon is…is deeply humiliating. God, do you ever think of the consequences of your actions or is only your own amusement that matters?”

Marya refused to cry. She would not shed a single tear over this woman again, she vowed. It felt wonderfully freeing to say these things, even to someone like Hélène. To finally voice what she had been unable to for decades. To put words to her anguish over the past several days at last.

“I am sorry,” Hélène said, and she had no exasperation or mocking in her voice. Just real regret. “Truly. And you are correct. I didn’t think. I never do. But you were never just a plaything to me, Marya. If you didn’t despite me so, and if not for the limitations of our sex, I might have wanted to pursue you. You really are a striking woman, Marya Dmitryevna. If you don’t believe me, let me show you.”

Hélène led Marya by the hand, drawing her across the room and towards the bed. It was on the tip of Marya’s tongue to protest, but then Hélène lightly pushed her onto the loveseat instead, and knelt in front of her.

The sight of Hélène Kuragina on her knees, staring up at Marya as though she were the most delicious thing in the universe, took Marya’s breath away. On instinct, she glanced warily towards the door. 

Hélène took her chin and turned her head back gently. This tenderness, this softness. Marya didn’t know what to do with it. A far cry from the frantic rutting and biting of last time, Hélène instead rose up just a bit and placed a chaste kiss on Marya’s lips, running her tongue lightly over the sensitive area. And Marya nodded. And this time she had more than enough stamina to return the favor.

When they at last they collapsed onto the loveseat, half on top of one another because they’d never actually made it to the bed, Marya smiled.

“I believe I am too old to be on my knees,” she remarked, wincing as she stood to look for her underthings. She located her stockings halfway across the room and her panties underneath Hélène. Fleetingly, Marya wondered if they would ever have the opportunity to remove each other’s corsets and be comfortable, or if they were forever doomed to steal a few moments in the middle of the day here and there. She desperately hoped it would not be this way forever. Not only for her body’s sake, but for her old-fashioned sensibilities as well.

“I’ll see you out,” Hélène said, fussing over both of their appearances. “And Marya? Thank you. And I meant it. If I could court you, I would.”

“And who says I would not be the one courting you?” Marya asked teasingly. This time, far from the sobbing mess she’d been last time, her dalliance with Hélène had left her feeling refreshed and light as a feather. She hoped the initial panic, terror, and anguish would be a thing of the past. “After all, I am very much your senior, dear.”

Hélène simply pressed a kiss to her cheek, and escorted her to the door. At the last moment, Marya paused before crossing the threshold.

“Oh,” she said, fishing through her purse. “Before I forget. You forgot these.” With a little smirk, she withdrew Hélène’s forgotten gloves. “Feel free to forget them at any time, dear.” And with that, Marya stepped out into the cold Moscow air and smiled all the way home.

\-----

It took the better part of a month for Hélène and Pierre’s divorce to be finalized. By then, all of Moscow had heard, but within the bubble of the Akhrosimova household, the residents and visitors paid the gossip no mind.

Mindful of Marya’s concern how Natasha’s reputation might fare if she and Pierre immediately began courting after the last paper had been signed and made official, they agreed to wait an appropriate amount of time lest Moscow combust in overwhelmed scandal. Of course, that hardly mattered when they could be as exasperatingly lovesick as they dared within Marya’s drawing room under her stern supervision.

She’d made sure Pierre knew if he ever raised a hand or his voice to Natasha she would personally see to his ruin. And, because she couldn’t help herself, she extended that same consequence if he did the same to Hélène.

When Hélène had learned of Marya’s threat on her behalf, she’d had to excuse herself to the powder room before anyone could see how touched she’d been.

During the month preceding the official divorce, Marya had ensured Natasha and Sonya’s presence in her home would remain permanent for the foreseeable future. Though technically, considering neither girl had any fiancé to wait for, it seemed unnecessary for them to remain in Moscow away from Natasha’s parents, Marya couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them go.

Besides, Natasha had insisted, Pierre and she could be free to love soon enough, and it seemed silly to travel all the way back when she had a perfectly wonderful home right there in Moscow. After Natasha had said that, it had been Marya who needed to excuse herself to the powder room to tear up in peace.

As for Sonya, well. Marya wasn’t born yesterday. She knew very well how close Sonya and Mary had become over the weeks, and to send Sonya back to the Rostov’s would be cruel to the both of them. Even if it did mean Marya had two more besotted individuals to fuss over. Small favors that neither girl seemed to realize their feelings for what they were.

During this time, Marya spent a fair bit of her waking hours alongside Hélène. Though the sex, what little they could have given the constant risk of interruption, remained excellent, Marya had insisted they not simply limit themselves to a purely physical relationship.

After all, she thought. While God might not think so terribly of two women together, he most certainly would judge two women who only ever engaged in casual sexual activities and not genuine courtship – as genuine as it could be given the circumstances – just as harshly as a man and woman living in sin.

And to the delight, but not quite the surprise, of both of them, the two women greatly enjoyed sharing a bottle of wine and fine conversation.

Marya knitted Hélène a scarf (“to fix that scandalous neckline of yours,” Marya had said with mock-disapproval), and Hélène read aloud to her as often as she could (“to keep your mind from going too senile in your old age,” Hélène had teased, earning her a light swat with the end of an emerald green scarf.) Really, it was only inevitable that Marya fall just a little head over heels. Just a touch, and there was no use telling Hélène who would only gloat for days on end. No, Marya thought it better to keep this little bit of gossip to herself at least until she found the right time.

Besides, falling in love after just a few weeks. Particularly after years of burning hatred. Really, how childish. Marya considered herself above the ridiculousness that had seized hold of Natasha and Pierre, or even Sonya and Mary, bless their oblivious hearts.

Still, it was on the day of the official divorce, and they had all gathered around Pierre’s table to celebrate. Marya had perhaps indulged in a bit too much, because she very nonchalantly and very smoothly offered up her own home for Hélène to stay in. At least until she could make other living arrangements.

“After all,” Marya said, turning a bit pink. “It’s not as though my taking in another stray would cause too much of a stir.” A lie and they both knew it.

“Oh, are Mary and I just strays to you?” Hélène teased to cover her surprise. “And here I thought we were practically family.”

“Be serious, Hélène,” Marya sighed in exasperation. “Really, it was just a thought. Of course, it wouldn’t be nearly as lavish or spacious as what you are used to, and we may have to shuffle the girls around a bit, but they would be so pleased.” She glanced over at Princess Mary, who sat quietly, pretending not to be listening. “Isn’t that right, Masha?”

As a credit to the progress they had made, Mary did not flinch, though she did flush slightly. She smiled warmly at Hélène, and Marya wondered why she had ever thought Mary too plain or faded. She’d come, quite frankly, to view Marya Bolkonskaya as another goddaughter of sorts. Never mind that the princess was a scant few years younger than Hélène. No, Marya didn’t care to dwell too long on that.

“We would love to have you at the house, Hélène,” Mary said, and because the nervous princess had proven in the past to be nearly incapable of telling a lie, Hélène believed her.

Both Sonya and Natasha, who had eagerly jumped into the conversation, nodded emphatically.

“Good, it’s all settled then,” Marya said, clapping with a hint of finality. “Sonya and Natasha will have to share a room, but I’m sure the girls won’t mind.” It was the most proper solution, though Marya could think of two separate arrangements which might have suited their wants better than their needs.

Pierre tilted his head, watching his old friend curiously. His own hatred of his ex-wife had considerably abated since they’d begun their divorce, but given how Marya had never approved of Hélène even when they’d first been wed, he had to wonder sometimes.

Marya caught his eye, daring him to comment. Pierre may have been oblivious to certain things, but even he might notice anything untoward between his ex-wife and old friend. Or perhaps he just thought it far too surreal to think of his ex-wife and hopefully-future-wife living under the same roof along with his dear friend and the sister of his best friend. Come to think of it, what a strange bunch they made indeed.

Nevertheless, Hélène soon moved in, stuffing the wardrobe with her lavish clothing – a good deal had been left at Pierre’s home until she could find space for it – and scattering her personal affects across the house. Marya never let on how much it tickled her to find Hélène’s hair clips in between the cushions of the sofa, or see her shade of lipstick on the rims of the whiskey tumblers. No, that would only encourage her terrible habits even more.

Whatever his faults, Marya couldn’t deny Pierre held his purse strings far too loosely to be sensible. Largely, Hélène and Marya knew, due to his friendship with Marya and his budding romance with Natasha, Pierre had generously agreed to a staggeringly large monthly alimony which Hélène mostly put towards making sure her lover could support a full household of younger women. They never spoke of finances, but Marya’s relief at Pierre’s support, the little bit Mary could provide until her father – who’d been growing steadily more ill – eventually went to God and relinquished her rightful funds to her, and the small amount the Rostov’s provided kept her household afloat.

It was no secret to Moscow society that Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova’s husband had left her with next to nothing, and what money she’d had once upon a time had gone to the care and funeral arrangements of her sons when they eventually perished on the battlefield. Not that Marya had needed exorbitant wealth.

By any other standards, Marya considered herself perfectly financially stable. She’d gotten by over the years with just one servant to help her tighten her stays, cook meals, and keep house, but when Natasha and Sonya had come to stay she’d had to hire more help, stretching her funds to their absolute limit. Her goddaughters never knew how she worried over pennies. It wouldn’t have done to concern them with such matters, and though Mary certainly must have known she was just too polite to insult her host by giving out charity.

Hélène knew her lover’s worries well, and for that reason she’d reigned in her more frivolous and wasteful tastes. They didn’t talk about money, but it was a sore spot for Marya that she didn’t have the extensive wealth to spoil her girls, all of them, as much as she’d have liked.

“There’s no need to shower me with jewels,” Hélène said one day as she nibbled at Marya’s neck. A particular favorite for them both. “They don’t taste nearly as divine as you, _ma cherie_.” Marya blushed, pretending to be too engrossed in her stitches to respond. But Hélène noticed anyway and simply redoubled her ministrations. At least she’d had the sense to wipe her lipstick off before her fun.

Normally, Marya would never have allowed them to be so brazen. Why, the two women sat in the sitting room, in plain view of anyone who might come walking through the door. Considering the many people that regularly bustled through the Akhrosimova household nowadays, it could have been anyone.

But in a rare occurrence, the mistress of the house and her lover were alone. Completely and blissfully alone. It was a Sunday afternoon so Marya had sent the help home for the day, and Mary had gone to sit at the bedside of her ailing father in his last days on earth with Sonya and Natasha for moral support. Marya had offered, if only because she knew how terrified Old Prince Bolkonsky was of her, but Mary demurred. Looking back, Marya distinctly remembered Hélène sending the poor princess a pointed look.

“You know,” Hélène said in that blasé way of hers. “Seeing as we have the house to ourselves for at least a few solid hours…”

“Oh? Well, I’m nearly done with this pair of gloves for Mary,” Marya said, feigning innocence. “If you like we can start up a modified game of Boston.”

“Actually, I had something a little more…invigorating in mind,” Hélène said, smirking. She leaned forward, giving Marya unfettered access to gaze down at her ample bosom. “See, I’ve been living in your lovely home for nearly a month now, and it’s positively a crime that I have yet to get you out of that carpet you call a dress.”

“Not all of us prefer to prance around in sheer silks in the middle of a Russian winter, dear,” Marya said haughtily. But, placing aside her knitting, she stood and held out a hand. Hélène took it gloatingly and all but dragged Marya down the hall to her bedroom.

No sooner had Marya stepped over the threshold, than she found herself pinned up against the now-closed door. She tightly gripped the knob, moaning as Hélène once again latched onto her neck.

“I do so love your preference of high-necked blouses,” Hélène murmured. Marya hummed in response and pushed off from the door. She could feel Hélène deftly undoing the buttons fastening her skirts in place. Another second and they fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. She shivered slightly as her sensitive flesh acquainted itself with the chill of the room. “Come, I want to take my time with you.”

Hélène led Marya over to her vanity and made her sit. She took off Marya’s heavy red jacket, and ran her hands teasingly up her now-bare arms. She hesitated at Marya’s intricate hairstyle, and they both wondered if they could afford to waste time with it.

“Well, you’ll have to redo it anyway,” Marya said briskly, secretly almost squirming with anticipation. She’d longed to know what it would feel like for Hélène to run her fingers through her hair. For her to twist and pull in the throes of passion. “Who knows what state it’ll be in after you’ve had your…fun.” She shot Hélène a sly look through the mirror’s reflection and Hélène brightened.

She gently removed each and every pin from Marya’s hair until the dark red curls settled freely over her shoulders and down her back. Hélène lightly ran her fingers through the thick locks, smoothing the somewhat wispy greys at her temples and that one curl that had insisted on going completely grey before the rest of her head.

“You look so lovely like this,” Hélène murmured pressing a kiss to Marya’s temple. “Much softer, ma cherie.”

“Younger too, I’d wager,” Marya replied wryly. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and though she removed her lipstick if only to avoid staining Hélène’s clothes and her own sheets, she hesitated over wiping her face completely free of its powders and colors.

Sensing her hesitation, Hélène gracefully draped herself over Marya’s lap, pulling her in for a deep kiss. The taller woman groaned, relishing in the sensation of Hélène’s gauzy dress against her nearly-bare legs. She reached up and removed the various jeweled clips from Hélène’s own hair. The much simpler style took barely a moment to undo.

Hélène broke the kiss, much to Marya’s disappointment. But she gave the redhead a wink, and vigorously ruffled her tight curls, separating and fluffing them until she was satisfied.

“Beautiful,” Marya declared. Hélène laughed, shaking her head. “Mm, I wish we had more time.”

“Well, let’s not waste any,” Hélène replied, and she reached around the see about freeing Marya from her blouse. Which took a bit longer than they might have liked, but those buttons were incredibly tiny. Eventually, Marya had to stand up and turn around so Hélène could properly focus.

Hélène had probably expected Marya to be in a red corset, considering she only ever seemed to wear various shades of one color – oh, and black of course. But the plain white corset, several years out of fashion, was more for practicality than aesthetics. The sort of corsets Hélène wore were meant to accentuate her cleavage and entice with pretty shades of green.

Marya didn’t quite blush, but she did demurely cross her arms over the tops of her breasts. Hélène had never seen her this underdressed before.

Gently, Hélène drew her arms away, pressing kisses to skin she’d previously only been able to touch through a thick warm blouse. She decided she liked this much better.

“Help me with the buttons?” Hélène asked, turning.

Marya carefully draped the dress over a chair, not wanting to wrinkle the fine fabric. Then, when Hélène nodded for her to continue, she deftly loosened her corset stays. Hélène let out a long sigh of relief. 

“Oh, that’s much better,” Hélène moaned, slumping slightly. She tossed the offending garment aside carelessly, smoothing out the wrinkles of her delicate chemise. “Now for the rest of it.” Marya blinked in surprise, but eagerly sank to the ground to help Hélène step out of her shoes, stockings, and underthings.

“I’m going to need a hand,” Marya said, reaching up. Her knees cracked as she rose, but it had been worth it. Hélène waited until her lover had steadied herself before stepping back with a playful wink. And without another moment’s delay, she lifted her shift off in one fluid motion. He breasts bounced slightly, and her dark nipples proudly stood at attention.

Marya’s breath caught in her throat. Hélène Kuragina stood before her, completely and entirely nude. She even did a little twirl, fully aware of the affects she had on her redheaded lover.

“Will you let me undress you, Marya?” Hélène asked with a pout. Marya nodded, still speechless. She turned, and gathered her hair over her shoulder and out of Hélène’s way as she easily undid the laces. She too breathed a sigh of relief.

“I don’t know why I bother with them,” Marya said, glaring at the torturous garment. “It’s not as though I need one given…well, you’ll see.” She raised her arms and Hélène drew her shift over her head, but she made no attempt to turn Mayra around just yet. Instead she peppered Marya’s shoulder blades and spine with little kisses. The redhead sighed contentedly, and hardly noticed when Hélène divested her of the rest of her clothing.

“I should warn you,” Marya said matter-of-factly. “I’m no longer a young woman, Hélène. I’ve- I’ve given birth a number of times, and I’m not nearly as well-endowed.” She took a deep breath, and slowly turned.

She watched Hélène drink her in, naked lust in her eyes, yes, but also a hint of love and admiration. This time Marya did blush. She fiddled with the end of her hair, waiting for Hélène to hopefully say something.

“No,” Hélène said finally, pressing their bodies together. Marya shivered and tilted her head back. “You’re not a young woman. And you have given birth. And it’s true that these are not quite as full as mine. And you are absolutely exquisite.” She ran her fingers over the faint marks on Marya’s stomach. Remnants of those many days spent with children from all those years ago. Marya hummed in satisfaction.

Next, Hélène cupped Marya’s small breasts. Barely a handful. Marya whimpered, arching forward. No one had ever seen her this bare before. Not even her husband. It was invigorating.

“Please,” Marya whispered, clinging to Hélène’s waist. “Please.” Hélène smiled, and languidly laid down atop Marya’s bed. She spread her legs invitingly, and Marya instantly scrambled after her. She hovered atop her younger lover, kissing her hotly.

“Grab my hair,” Marya ordered, regaining some of her natural bravado. “You’re going to need something to hold onto, my dear.” Hélène laughed, and it was one of the prettiest sounds Marya had ever heard.

And just as she’d imagined, having Hélène’s hands buried in her thick hair felt positively divine. She groaned loudly, eternally thankful they had the entire house to themselves with no one to hear. Marya, after all, could be quite loud.

“Oh, that’s it, love,” Hélène said, clutching Marya’s head to her bosom. Marya experimentally gave her brown nipple a small lick. She groaned in delight, and Marya took that to mean she’d done something very good indeed.

Soon enough she had Hélène gasping and writhing beneath her. The younger woman’s legs had come to wrap around Marya’s hips, drawing her even closer.

“I think I like you like this,” Marya said in amusement, lifting her head. She took in Hélène’s flushed face and delighted smile. Not to mention all the faint little marks she’d nibbled into her breasts. “So stimulated, so desperate for me.”

“You’ll like me even more if you get on with it,” Hélène said, sounding impatient. “Besides, remember who knows exactly how to get the Terrible Dragon to mewl like a newborn kitten. And I’ll make it worth your while if you just…fuck me, Marya Dmitryevna.”

“Well, if you insist,” Marya said, pretending to be reluctant. She nudged Hélène’s legs apart, giving herself ample room. And just as she’d suspected, Hélène was practically dripping with want. She groaned, unconsciously licking her lips.

When she dragged her fingers through Hélène’s wetness, making sure to copiously lubricate them, Hélène nearly ripped a good chunk of her hair out, her grip was so tight.

Marya grunted, but hurriedly grabbed Hélène’s hands when she apologetically pulled away. “I don’t want it in the way,” she explained, but they both knew she’d found a particularly pleasurable indulgence. 

So, Hélène gathered up her thick curls, making sure to tug a bit but not too tightly. She rocked her hips up, moaning when Marya lowered her head and began sucking lightly on her clitoris.

“Marya,” Hélène gasped. “Oh! Inside, please!” Marya knew from extensive experience that Hélène could take two fingers at a time, three once they’d sufficiently worked her up enough. Marya herself could manage up to four. She strongly suspected it had to do with her having pushed four sons out of her vagina, but one never knew.

Each time Marya nestled herself between Hélène’s legs, each time she had the privilege of bringing the former countess such carnal pleasure, Marya counted her blessings. Marya knew now few had ever had the fortune of being where she lay, just as none had ever seen her as vulnerable as she had. It filled her with an enormous sense of pride and gratitude. 

It never took Hélène long to climax. Marya liked to think it was her own prowess and allure that made it so easy, but she knew it likely had to do with Hélène’s youth. Everything came easier to young people. Of course, Hélène could bring Marya to orgasm in an almost embarrassingly short amount of time, but Marya had always been especially sensitive.

As Hélène tipped over the edge, her back bowing and muscles straining, Marya felt a deep prideful satisfaction. The other woman looked so beautiful this way; ragged, sweaty, pleasantly wrecked.

“God, you are incredible,” Hélène murmured, sagging back onto the bed. She beckoned the redhead to her, and Marya gladly curled into Hélène’s side. “Just let me-” Suddenly, with a mischievous little smirk, Helene rolled them both over until she sat triumphantly on Marya’s hips. The redhead yelped, eyes widening in shock. While Hélène certainly had a shorter recovery period, she hadn’t realized it would be that instantaneous.

“Hélène!” Marya glared at her, but the brunt of it fell flat considering her flushed face and pinpoint nipples. “Well, really!”

“I did say I’d make it worth your while,” Hélène said with a cheeky wink. And oh did she ever.

\-----

Later, both women lay panting and utterly sated. Still blissfully naked, Marya drew a blanket around their cooling bodies as they cuddled up together. She knew they were risking too much by staying in bed when they should have been scrambling to dress before anyone could return home, but the clock on the mantle said they still had hours yet. And, if Marya were to be honest, she didn’t care.

Marya much preferred this lounging around, Hélène’s head resting on her chest and her warm body curling around her side. She could have sworn she heard Hélène purring as she stroked her unruly curls.

“Rather impressive for such an old widow woman,” Hélène teased. Marya lightly smacked her arm.

“Brat,” she retorted. “I thought we might enjoy the moment, but evidently not.” She reluctantly nudged Hélène up. When she stretched, her bones cracked and popped audibly.

“You should wear your hair like that every day,” Hélène said. “So enchanting, _ma cherie_.” She sat up, stretching out much like a cat. Marya scowled, attempting to smooth her curls into place to no avail. She should have known better than to expect Hélène to leave her with something somewhat salvageable to look presentable at dinner.

Hélène giggled, easily sorting out her own messy mane of curls. How Hélène had come out of their lovemaking better off given the natural state of her curls, Marya didn’t know. That her darker skin had managed to remain relatively unmarred in comparison to Marya’s own paleness was less of a mystery.

Gathering her tangled hair up and away from her neck, Marya looked down at herself to assess the damage. Upon seeing the smattering of marks dotting her breasts, collarbone and likely her neck, Marya sent Hélène an accusatory look.

“As I said, enchanting,” Hélène said smugly. Then, looking more concerned, she added, “I haven’t hurt you, have I? I will try and be more careful next time, if you like.” She traced across Marya’s upper chest, a pout forming on her swollen lips. Marya shook her head, covering Hélène’s hand with her own. Nothing a bit of soothing cream and a few gentle kisses wouldn’t heal. Hélène smiled, and leaned in to do just that, but Marya lightly pushed her back.

“Maybe wait a bit,” she cautioned. “I’m a bit sensitive. Oh, hold on.” Marya huffed in exasperation as she caught sight of the dwindling fire. Hélène jumped up before she could move though, and though Marya hadn’t thought it possible to make relighting a fire seductive, Hélène always had been a surprise.

The taller woman leaned back, the consequence of being so vigorous in their lovemaking beginning to take its toll on her aching body. Maybe she was too old for this sort of thing after all. 

Hélène let out an exaggerated yawn, raising her arms high above her head and arching her back. She sent Marya a lewd wink, and teasingly turned around, presenting her full bottom to the blushing redhead.

“My goodness, what an absolute mess in here,” Hélène said, bending at the waist. Marya rolled her eyes, groaning. She watched her lover enticingly wiggle her bottom before reaching out and picking up the pile of Marya’s skirts.

“You brazen hussy,” Marya accused, flinging a pillow in the younger woman’s direction. Hélène shrieked, followed by a hearty laugh. She snatched the pillow out of the air and flung it back, missing wildly. 

She’d just snapped Marya’s skirts in the air to shake off the dust when the door burst open and Marya’s laughter died in her throat. Five simultaneous gasps of horror filled the air, and Marya panicked.

With her arms still above her head holding her hair, her goddaughters had an unobstructed view of Marya’s bare breasts and all the damning marks to go with it. She yanked the blanked that she’d let pool around her lap up to her neck.

Hélène pressed Marya’s skirts to her chest, looking torn between laughing or crying. In the end she simply blinked at the three intruders, pressing a hand to her mouth. Though she and Marya were nowhere near each other, there could be no question what they’d been up to all afternoon. Between the state of Marya’s chest and neck, the clothing strewn about the room, and the fact that two grown women didn’t just simply lounge about in the nude, well, even her goddaughters’ unworldly naivety wouldn’t fool them.

“We heard a scream,” Sonya said faintly, looking very much like she herself would be fainting soon.

Shockingly, it was Princess Mary who seemed to have the only cool head on her shoulders despite the concerning shade of red crossing her cheeks. She grabbed both Natasha and Sonya’s arms and practically dragged them both away, squeaking out an apology.

“Does this mean I can have my own room again?” Natasha called just before the door slammed shut.

“Natasha!” Marya heard both Mary and Sonya shriek in alarm as three sets of feet hurried far away from her bedroom. Never in all her years had Marya Dmitryevna been so mortified as right then. 

Like a pouting child, she flung the blanket over her head and curled up beneath it. Marya could hear Hélène hurrying around the room, hastily dressing, but she couldn’t bear to face anyone after such a humiliating end to an otherwise perfect day.

“Darling,” Hélène said, and Marya felt the bed dip beneath her weight. “Don’t be so dramatic, really. They won’t breathe a word to anyone about us, and it’s not as though they caught us in the act. Come, we must face them sooner or later.”

Eventually, Marya allowed herself to be coaxed out, though her face felt as though it must have been several shades deeper than her hair. Still, she metaphorically dragged her feet, purposefully tying up Hélène’s stays too loosely and redoing them, and then spilling her hairpins across the vanity desk.

She couldn’t hide in her room forever like a child, no matter how much she wanted to, so taking a deep breath, Marya gave her now-immaculate hair one last pat before she allowed Hélène to lead her out. 

\-----

No one could look each other in the eye during dinner. With the servants away for the night, Sonya had jumped at the chance to avoid the awkwardness as much as possible and had taken it upon herself to do the serving.

Even Hélène, who Marya expected to be the least affected by being caught in such a compromising state, remained relatively subdued.  
  
The very second after they put their forks down, Sonya collected their plates and hurried from the room, leaving the remaining four in an awkward silence. Natasha seemed to flit from mortification to amusement, and Princess Mary still hadn’t lost her deep blush. But then, neither had Marya.

As the matriarch of the house, and largely responsible for the situation to begin with, Marya took it upon herself to address the extremely uncomfortable elephant in the room. When Sonya reluctantly reentered, Marya ordered them all into the sitting room, hoping she sounded as no-nonsense as usual.

Allowing everyone more time than strictly necessary to get comfortable, Marya finally cleared her throat and all fidgeting ceased immediately.

“I- I must apologize for earlier today,” Marya said slowly, keeping her voice strong. “It was…completely inappropriate for you three to have to witness Hélène and I in such a state of undress and…well…” She waved a hand pointedly. “We hadn’t intended for you to find out about us in such an improper manner.”

“Or at all,” Hélène added under her breath. She poured herself a generous tumbler of vodka from a nearby decanter, and raised it up questioningly. Everyone, even Mary who hardly ever drank, nodded.  
  
“Yes, or at all,” Marya agreed. She caught Mary’s eye, knowing of anyone she would be the most scandalized. “If…if you – or any of you – are uncomfortable, ah, living here, I wouldn’t blame you for…leaving.” And despite her attempt to remain stoic, Marya’s voice broke. She hastily wiped at the corner of her eye. These rooms really had to be dusted better.

The thought of losing her goddaughters, Mary very much included, somehow seemed far worse than becoming a public mockery and pariah.

“Well,” Sonya said reluctantly. “We, ah, knew. About you and Hélène, that is. Not about, um…” Sonya waved her hand in a startlingly accurate imitation of Marya.

“You…you knew?” Marya repeated, flabbergasted. She had assumed none of them would even know two women could be together, much less think that of their godmother and her former adversary. “Oh. Then, are you…?”

“I think it’s romantic,” Natasha gushed, finally able to look Marya in the eye. She beamed, and this time Marya definitely had to wipe under her eye several times. Pesky dust. She looked questioningly at Sonya and Mary who both nodded, though perhaps less excitedly than Natasha.

“But please,” Sonya said, eyes wide. “Please let’s never have a repeat of this again.” And she did look rather traumatized.

“Yes, I think that’s best,” Marya said, clearing her throat. She nervously fiddled with her necklace, and tried very hard to forget earlier had ever happened.

Hélène, who had reluctantly accepted it when Marya had chosen a seat as far from her as possible, caught Marya’s eye, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. Marya sighed, but scooted over and patted the cushion next to her. The dazzling smile she received in return almost made up for the earlier embarrassment. Almost.

So, with Hélène curled up next to her, happily leaning her head on Marya’s shoulder, the four others started up a game of Boston. And Marya couldn’t have been more pleased with how things turned out.

Though she cared for Hélène dearly, Marya had spent many sleepless nights imagining such terrible reactions from the others if they ever found out. She’d imagined hatred, rage, disgust. Imagined Natasha reviling her as a hypocrite, demanding what right her own godmother had to scorn her for her decision to run away with Anatole, while she actively took up with his sister. Imagined Sonya laughing and decrying it had not been her who had ruined the family name, but Marya herself with her perverted desires. Imagined deeply devout Princess Mary fleeing from the Akhrosimova house and back to her fathers. Because being his scapegoat scared her less than living next to such sin.

But it had been rejection she feared worst. Far more than any insults or mockery. The thought of being shunned by any one of these three young women whom she’d come to love as though they were her own made her sick to her stomach. Had someone forced a gun to her head and ordered her to choose between her goddaughters or her lover, Marya knew her decision. No matter how painful.

So, it was with profound relief that Marya realized none of her fears had any merit, and not a single one of her godchildren would ever force her to choose or abandon her because of their disgust. In fact, they all seemed positively delighted that she and Hélène and found happiness. So delighted, Marya felt the need to impart on them the seriousness of the situation, and the importance of secrecy.

“A relationship of this nature is…unorthodox,” Marya said, after winning yet another hand. “Now, I do not want any of you to believe this is because it is unnatural or wrong in any way.” She said this to all of them, but glanced pointedly at Sonya and Mary.

“Just because society does not approve does not mean they’re right,” Hélène added wisely. “But this is not something we can flaunt even if we wanted do, and heaven knows I’ve done my fair share of flaunting in my day.”

“If word were to get out, it would mean certain ruin,” Marya said bluntly. “For all of us. Not even Pierre can know, Natalya. Please, this is most important.” She tried to impart the seriousness by using Natasha’s given name.

“I’m sure Pierre would be just as happy for you both as we are,” Natasha said. Given that Pierre would likely be family very soon, she probably thought he would find out eventually, but both Marya and Hélène shook their heads, giving her very serous looks.

“As much as I’m sure my dear ex-husband would not disapprove, I’m afraid we cannot risk Pierre becoming intoxicated at the club one night and letting something slip,” Hélène said, and at last Natasha nodded in understanding.

The youngest resident stood and stretched with a loud yawn. “Well, this has been an exciting day. Goodnight, everyone.” And she gave her godmother a tight hug. Hélène too. Both women hurriedly wiped at their eyes. Marya really had to do something about all the lingering dust in the air.

“If I hear any strange noises, I promise I won’t barge in!” Natasha said, dashing through the door before Marya could react. They could hear her giggling all the way down the hall, and Marya didn’t miss Sonya and Mary’s quiet tittering either. And she certainly heard Hélène’s loud cackling.

“Natalya!” Marya shouted after her, turning red once more. “Really. The audacity of that girl. Hélène, stop being so brazen!” She nudged her lover, who had been smugly running her fingers over Marya’s covered but marked neck in a most distracting manner.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” Hélène announced, giving Marya a wink. To which she rolled her eyes disapprovingly. “Your godmother certainly wore me out!” And she sauntered away, laughing musically. The only reason Marya did not stare after her was to save whatever remained of Sonya and Mary’s innocence.

“Shall I expect Hélène’s bed will be open tonight?” Sonya asked, and if Marya didn’t know any better she might have thought Sonya teasing her. Actually, judging by the twinkle in her eye, her ginger-haired goddaughter most certainly was teasing her.

“Don’t be cheeky, Sofia,” Marya said primly, standing to head off to bed herself. “And no, her bed will most certainly not be open tonight. We’re expecting the servants back in the morning and it would be too risky. Now don’t stay up too late, girls.” Marya tried not to think about how much she wished Hélène could sneak into her bed.

Which was why, sometime later just as she’d finished plaiting her hair for the night, Marya opened her bedroom door far too eagerly when she heard a knock.

Mary, wrapped up in a thick woolen robe, took a large step back, surprised at such intensity. She nervously wrung her hands, fiddling with her rosary.

“Oh, Mary,” Marya said, blinking in surprise. “Is there something you needed?” And she was suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting, having already removed her makeup for the night as well. 

Mary continued anxiously turning the rosary around and around, and Marya tried not to scare the poor woman off, but she’d started to get impatient.

“I hope I’m not being a bother,” Mary said, her gaze flitting around as though afraid someone was lurking in the shadows. “And I know it is terribly late and all, but…could- could we maybe…” Mary looked hopefully over Marya’s shoulder, beginning to chew on her bottom lip. Marya sighed and opened the door widely enough for Mary to slip in. Then, she closed the door securely behind her. Just in case.

“Is this about Hélène and I, dear?” Marya asked. She sat down on the loveseat at the foot of her bed and patted next to her. Mary sat, her oversized robe nearly swallowing her. She nodded, and Marya shifted nervously. “Well, speak frankly then. If you have concerns, I…understand.” She sighed internally, knowing things had gone far too smoothly.

“No, not concerns,” Mary assured her, catching Marya’s unease. “I just- I wasn’t sure who else to go to. I cannot help loving Hélène, but I admit I feel a great kinship to you. I have never known anyone in Moscow to be quite as Godfearing as you or I, and maybe you can understand.”

“Yes, I think I understand,” Marya said, patting Mary’s hand and stilling her fidgeting. “This is about you and Sonya as well, yes?” Mary’s eyes grew to the size of rubles. Stammering, she finally nodded, flushing in embarrassment.

“What you feel for Hélène, I think I may feel for Sonya,” Mary said tentatively. “Only, maybe just a bit less…” She waved a hand, and she too did a stunning impression of Marya.

“Lust?” Marya supplied, somehow Mary’s own mortification canceling out her own. Mary nodded, but hesitated. “Or is lust part of the problem, dear? Because if it is, there’s no shame in wanting. Desire is-” she paused, searching for the proper words- “human nature.”

“How did you do it?” Mary asked plainly. “How did you become so comfortable considering your devotion to God? Because I- I just- I don’t know how…” She looked pleadingly up at Marya, but before the older woman could speak, Mary hurried on breathlessly. Wisely, Marya thought it best to allow the poor woman to exhaust herself before imparting her with whatever help she could.

“And Sonya! She’s still so young. Not a child, obviously, but surely suitors would be lining up for her, she’s so lovely, and- and wouldn’t have to be a spinster like I am. I don’t- I don’t want to be the reason she gives up a chance at a normal, good, Godfearing life. And oh, I don’t eve know if she likes me the way. I- and oh, it’s all so confusing and I just don’t understand how I could- Marya, I don’t want to-” at this, Mary let out a choked sob. She buried her face in her hands, and Marya could just make out the words “sin” and “hell” in an anguished muffled voice.

A wave of great tenderness and affection washed over Marya Dmitryevna, and she didn’t hesitate to draw the trembling woman to her bosom, softly stroking her mousy brown hair. She didn’t speak, waiting for Mary to find her breath first. And truthfully, the widow didn’t know if anything she said could sooth the princess’s anguish.

“My dear,” she said at last, still holding tight. “I’m not sure I know what it is I can say to ease your fears. We’ve both been taught any sort of romance between women is…unacceptable both in the eyes of our neighbors and in God. And I myself have spent decades living in fear of what I suspect I always knew I am. But I believe God makes no mistake. He has made me – and you – this way for a reason. We are not sinful, Mary. Please, I cannot stress this enough. Do you understand, my dear girl?”

“I- I do not know,” Mary admitted quietly. “What you say makes sense, but what if… Marya, I am not strong like you or Hélène. Look at me! I could not bear it if-”

“Believe me, Princess, when I finally acknowledged my feelings for Hélène, and my attraction to women I was just as distraught,” Marya said firmly, watching Mary stare at her in shock and disbelief. “More so, I’d wager. And yes, there are times even now, even as happy as I am, that I sometimes feel terrified. But I also know that I have never felt more loved and cherished than with Hélène. If the thought of being with Sonya makes you feel anything close to this, it will all be worth it, Maria.”

Mary bit at her lip nervously, still unsure but Marya could see her on the precipice of acceptance, even just a little.

“I advise you to pray for guidance as I did,” Marya continued. “God is loving, Princess Mary, not simply wrathful. We forget that all too often. And as for any doubts about my goddaughter, you needn’t fear on that front. I believe she is just as smitten as you.” At that, Mary broke out into a bashful but delighted smile.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” she confessed with a blush. “You say you’ve known for decades, but how? I mean, I have always admired women before, but I never thought…”

Marya hesitated, and hurriedly Mary tried to reassure her it was none of her business. “I was young,” Marya said instead. “Younger than Natasha. And there was this beautiful young girl I stayed with once. We would try on each other’s dresses and practice dancing, and she insisted on sharing a bed to keep warm at night. I think, looking back on it now, I may have had some sort of romantic inclination towards her, not that I knew it at the time.

“There are a great many instances like this I now remember in my old age, and you may find the same is true for you, or you may find Sonya is the first. It does not matter either way, my dear. You are still you. Perhaps now a bit less timid but no less Marya Bolkonskaya.”

“Thank you, Marya,” Mary said, carefully wiping at her eyes. “For everything. Truly, I- I owe you so much gratitude.”

Marya waved her away, faintly blushing. Mary, she made it clear, owed her absolutely nothing but perhaps a bit of kindness and care, and only for as long as she liked. She had not taken the timid woman in expecting thanks.

She walked Mary to the door, squeezing her shoulder fondly, and made certain the younger woman knew she could always come to her for anything at all at any hour. 

“You are family, after all,” Marya said, smiling fondly. Mary gave her one final hug before tiptoeing around the corner back to bed, leaving Marya to smile softly after her. Marya Dmitryevna loved her goddaughters a great deal. Each and every one of them.

So lost in thought, she didn’t notice Hélène until she felt her lover’s arms around her waist. She startled, pulling away slightly before relaxing into the shorter woman’s embrace.

“That was terribly kind of you, Masha,” Hélène murmured, nibbling at Marya’s earlobe. Marya flushed, and rolled her eyes in mock-exasperation.

“Eavesdropping is unbecoming, Yelena,” she said sternly, turning to fully face the other woman. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sulking outside my door all this time?”

“Eavesdropping is a talent, _ma cherie_ , and one I know you are just as good at as I,” Hélène said with a smirk. “Besides, I just came to give you a proper goodnight away from innocent eyes. Though it seems our dear sweet Mary may not be as innocent as she likes us to believe.”

Marya hushed her with a gentle kiss. Then, “I’ll hear no more teasing about our princess. Let the poor dear figure this out without your…help. Goodness knows they’ve been through enough already.” Hélène nodded, much more concerned with kissing her way down Marya’s pale neck. But at last, she stepped back with a smug grin plastered on her face.

“ _Bonne nuit, ma cherie_ ,” she murmured, turning to go.

“Wait!” Marya spoke without thinking and Hélène turned around curiously, arching an eyebrow. The taller woman fidgeted. The servants would be at the house early the next morning; far too early for Hélène to rise and sneak back into her own bed. And the maid would be in to help Marya dress.

Only a fool would ask her female lover, a newly-divorced woman years her junior, to stay the night just for a few moments of cuddling before sleep overtook them. The sheer risk of being discovered by all of Russia far outweighed a bit of comfort in the dark.

But then again…

“Stay the night?” Marya stepped aside, nervously waiting for a reply. No matter how Hélène answered, it would leave her heart pounding. But Hélène’s face lit up with sheer joy. Marya couldn’t spot an ounce of smugness, innuendo, or mocking. Just utter delight at the very idea.

“Are you certain?” Hélène asked, stepping towards her. “Truly certain?”

“We’ll simply have to lock the door and ensure we haven’t any cracks in the walls,” said Marya primly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her nightdress. “And, my darling, I’ve never been quite so certain about anything in my life. So, please? Won’t you stay?”

And what could Hélène do but nod with the happiest expression she’d ever made? What indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. I'm not good at taking compliments so every time someone says something nice I'm surprised and have to lie down because I'm so pleased.


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